As far as big weeks go … this last one was a doozie. I took a whirlwind trip to LA to visit my eldest kiddy-wink and arrived home in a jetlagged stupor to step straight into the epicenter of hardcore house sale negotiations. But pop the champers people because 24 hours after I touched down the contract was signed and sealed and I’m now feeling fifty shades of mixed emotions....
Call me old fashioned, but I believe naming a small human is right up there with a strong eyebrow shape and good dental hygiene in terms of importance and the consequences of getting (either) wrong are huge. ...
My first Open Home ‘Invasion’ was on Saturday afternoon and I didn’t like it. Not one teeny, tiny bit. Over 100 people traipsed through my home … scrutinizing it’s features and shortcomings and passing judgement accordingly. It feels confronting; as though my private, ‘safe’ space has been violated. Not that I’ve got anything to hide ...
After weeks of yo-yoing back and forth like a crazy person, I’ve finally pushed the button and made the big, fat, hairy, scary call to put my house on the market. Even as I write these words I’m tearing up and drafting an email in my head about how I can legitimately pull the pin at the 11th hour....
With one kid gonski and the other vehicularly mobile, my Saturday mornings no longer resemble a scene from the Amazing race. As I sip on my latte and read the paper, I offer that ‘old persons’ empathetic smile to the procession of parents trying to grab a quick takeaway coffee prior to the ‘divide and conquer’ mission that involves wrangling kids into cars and ferrying them off to multiple sporting fields in far flung and (not so) exotic destinations. ...
I’m sitting at my desk, ready to write and all I can hear are the shrieks and squeals of “Marco” (pause) “Polo” from the kids two doors down. It’s happy noise and I’m not bothered by it but it has made me ponder … when did endless pool games and bombies stop being fun? ...
My son is bilingual. Actually, he has become so proficient in his new language that he rarely lapses back into his mother tongue. He picked up his second language with little or no formal instruction (#gifted) … via teenage osmosis I think. You may have heard of it … it’s called Gruntlish...
I have noticed that I am becoming increasingly intolerant. My list of annoyances grows by the day and includes everything from slow walkers, to cyclists, call centre help desks, poontzy dudes in flashy cars and anything to do with the post office. I frequently flip the bird, swear like a sailor when I’m driving and have been known to pull someone into line for trying to jump the queue at Bakers Delight. But all these things pale into insignificance when compared to the angst derived from the supermarket....
Now that I’ve got more time on my hands, I’ve started giving some serious thought to my golden gap year and in doing so I have identified two issues which require a little more consideration. One is furry and the other financial....
Whoever coined the term ‘to age gracefully’ was clearly not in their late 40’s and quite frankly I think they should slide off their hipster high horse and feel what it’s like to barely recognise the face that stares back at them from the bathroom mirror each morning. There is nothing graceful about ageing. Gravity becomes the enemy as your cheeks, boobs and butt start to fall like the Roman Empire and your annual mammogram is the only occasion you'll be asked to appear topless on film....